Wrecking Ball
by clarabranson
Summary: Severus Snape agrees to raise Clara Branson's potions grade if she will indulge him some erotic pleasure. Severus SnapexOC oneshot OOC Severus Snape


The heels of your shoes click on the stone floor as you swiftly navigate through the unfamiliar corridors, praying you can slip to the professors' wing unnoticed. The portraits watch you as you pass, a few of them scold you ineffectually, and the thrill of adrenaline drives the confidence you'll need to pull this off. Of all the mischievous things you've done in your seven years at Hogwarts, this will be the most scandalous.

You wonder if Fred Weasley guessed why you wanted directions to Professor Snape's rooms. Likely he had, because why else would a pretty, young woman - you don't lie to yourself; you've dated the best looking boys in school - who's failing Potions require such information? Especially since Fred and his brother have cornered the market on putting billywigs in Snape's bed, among other things, and why else would a student need access to a professor's rooms?

'Go during a Hogsmeade weekend,' Fred told you. 'Snape always sticks around the school when the rest of the professors have lunch in town. His room is guarded by the portrait of Vlad the Impaler.'

You're standing in front of said portrait right now, glancing up and down the deserted hallway and clutching your robe closed. You take a deep breath and hesitantly rap your quaking knuckles on the portrait frame.

"Just a moment," your Potions professor calls.

Despite the air of confidence you wrapped around yourself earlier, sudden fear grips you: are you sure you can go through with this? But there is no other option. The school year will end in a fortnight; you haven't made a successful potion all year and your test scores have been disreputable. You hadn't wanted to take N.E.W.T.-level Potions to begin with, but in a family of aurors, spell-crafters, and mediwitches, you hadn't had a choice.

And so here you are, standing in the chilly hallway, being greeted by an annoyed expression on Professor Snape's face.

"I need to speak with you, Professor," you say with manufactured confidence.

"Regular office hours are -"

Before he can finish, you shrug your robe open. The back falls down your shoulders, which you didn't mean to do, but you reckon it probably helps you look like a seductress in a Muggle movie. Professor Snape is caught aghast mid-sentence, his dark eyes widening, lips falling slack, eyebrows shooting towards his hairline.

"What-" he gapes.

Underneath your robe, you're wearing nothing but a matching emerald bra and panty set. You decided that knee socks would be a bit much, and you hadn't had proper stockings, but the ankle-socks and mary jane shoes give you the kind of naughty public schoolgirl look found in any magazine stuffed under any Hogwarts boy's mattress. You hope.

In the confident yet breathy tone you practiced with your best friend, you say, "I'm concerned about my grade in Potions, Professor Snape."

Comprehension fills his eyes, but the shock remains. You both start at a clatter around a corner: Peeves having a bit of fun.

"Get in here before someone sees you," Snape says sharply.

He grabs your elbow and pulls you inside, slamming the portrait behind him. Once in the entranceway, he drops your arm and puts some distance between him and you. He must have just gotten out of the shower; his wet hair drips in dark tendrils and he's wearing a dressing gown.

"Are you quite mad?" Snape says, looking not at all like you hoped he would when he saw you in your knickers.

You force your resolve; you came this far, you may as well see it through. "No, sir," you say. "I need an E in Potions."

"Have you tried studying?" His arms are crossed defensively, but you can tell he's trying not to look at your breasts. The chill air in the hallway must surely be giving him quite a sight.

"Yes, sir. I'm not a poor student - I'm doing quite well in my other classes. Potions is a very challenging subject," you say, gazing up at him, appealing to his ego. You step closer and place your hand on his chest, running your finger on the fold of his dressing gown, as if you're interested in the material.

He covers your hand with his but stops short of pushing it away. "I could lose my job for this," he says. Which means he's at least considering it. "How old are you?"

You move closer still, letting your robe fall almost completely away. "Old enough, sir," you whisper.

You're close enough that his hand, still holding yours, is a hair's breadth from your breast; you can feel his bath-raised bodyheat radiate toward you bare skin. You stand on your toes, tilting your head upwards and cocking it slightly, your lips inches from his.

Still clearly caught in a debate - one head versus the other, so to speak - Professor Snape leans towards you. His lips touch yours, lightly; the kiss is hesitant, even polite, as you become acquainted in a thoroughly out-of-classroom way.

"An E in Potions, sir, and this stays between us?"

Snape pauses. "An E is too obvious," he says. "Barring massive extra credit, it's impossible."

You lean the length of your body against his and feel the expected bulge against your stomach. "I believe I am offering massive," you pause for emphasis, "extra credit."

His dark eyes close briefly, clearly affected by your touch. He nods - agrees to the terms.

Your robe puddles at your feet and you encircle your arms around his neck. He kisses you properly for the first time, arms around your waist, arching you against his tall frame. The residual chill from the hallway raised goosepimples over your nearly nude body, and the heat from his larger, enveloping form - against the front of you, and the patches of warmth under his hands on your back - are stark contrasts. You are reminded of the physicality of sex, the physics - more so than chemistry - of two bodies merging.

You jump into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. Surprised, he catches you under your bum before he drops you. Thus supported, he carries you through the living room - out of the corner of your eye, you take in his stacks of books and parchment, his orderly private world - to what must be his bedroom.

In the doorway, he lets you down, your legs sliding along his. Your fingers are on the cloth belt of his dressing gown, but he stops you from undoing it. You look up at him, wondering if he's changed his mind ... if perhaps this is a sign that you should forget it and go back to your dorm room, accept your failing grade and fate as a low-level Ministry secretary.

But aside from the desire in his face - evident in the patches of rose-colored warmth on his pale cheeks - is something akin to concern. "Have you—" he asks, but loses his words. "I don't want to be part of any sort of de-virginizing. It isn't fair." He doesn't say to whom, and looks fairly embarrassed by the question.

"You aren't," you say. "And I've taken my contraceptus potion, if that was your next question."

Snape nods. "Then you're quite sure?"

He's giving you one last opportunity to bolt. But you don't want to. Divested of his usual robes and intimidating classroom persona, looking utterly human in his dressing gown, bare feet, and wet hair, you find Prof - Severus (it's absurd to use his title in this moment) more attractive than you expected. He's no Oliver Wood; but this isn't going to be a chore.

Rather than answer, you start to tug at his dressing gown belt. You lean towards him, on tiptoes, and he takes this as your answer. He's kissing his way down your neck as you push his dressing gown off of his shoulders. He leads you into his room, kicking the door shut behind him, his hot mouth on your throat, collarbone, shoulder.

He steps away from you and you can barely make out his form in the dark room as he procures his wand from a table. You hear him say "Incendio," and a fire erupts in a fireplace you hadn't noticed until then. Heat and soft light infuse the dank castle chamber, making you feel infinitely more welcome. The room - from the Turkish rug to the heavy drapes - is full of warm tones so unlike the professor you know; reds and golds in the flickering firelight. You can see Severus' broad bed now, neatly made, the bed curtains standing open like soldiers at attention.

Severus sets the wand on the mantle and turns to you; in only his shorts, his fair, bare chest is slender and muscled to what the charitable could call a swimmer's build. He looks almost shy as he walks towards you, possibly knowing that your romantic history mostly comprises burly quidditch players; or maybe he's reached the age where he has begun to lament his youthful physique.

When he reaches you, you kiss the dip at the base of his throat, then feeling beneath your lips the play of tendons and muscles where his neck and shoulder join. Your hands explore his warm, trim chest from collar to the southwardly trail below his naval, coming to resting you hands low in his hips. You look up, expecting to be kissed.

To your surprise, he kneels. The top of his damp hair brushes the underside of your breasts as he kisses the soft skin of your stomach. Desire is a blossoming physical presence that spreads through your stomach, almost painfully, as his tongue swirls around your navel. Though the gossip mill has never paired Severus off with a single romantic partner, he must have learned a few things, somewhere, in his thirty-odd years of existence. Your boyfriends have never caused quite the sensation Severus does with just his mouth on your stomach, his large hands cupping the backs of your thighs. He blows a puff of cool air where his hot mouth has just been, eliciting a gasp. His lips twist in a faint, unfamiliar smile as he stands.

He takes your hand to lead you to his bed almost as if he's escorting you into a ballroom. He's watching you, probably looking for any indication that he needs to abort this encounter. Without hesitation, you light the bed like a cat claiming ground and beckon Severus to you. His last reservation assuaged, he covers your upper body with his, kissing you deeply. Tongues entwine, lips capture lips, his large hand caresses your thigh, hip, stomach, ribs, breast. You hook your ankle around his thigh, opening yourself to him a bit more, making your bodies fit as bodies always have.

You feel the dips and rises of his bicep - flexed from supporting his weight so not to overwhelm you - his tense back, that little spot level to his hips that angles towards his groin. He makes a noise of appreciation as you lightly trace the mirrored divots, and summon the nerve to slip your hand into his shorts. He makes the noise again, quicker this time, as if he's surprised at your forwardness. You stroke the velvety skin lightly, mapping each vein. He has stopped moving above you, his hot breath against your shoulder, and murmurs in appreciation.

You pull the waistband of his shorts over his erection, with his assistance pushing them down his legs, and he kicks them off, watching your eyes. He's a tall man, and - not that you have given this much thought - you aren't surprised that he is large in all areas. You hope it won't hurt.

He leans over you, kissing you again, long fingers brushing your cheek and caressing your neck, almost as if he senses your apprehension. As a vote of confidence, you reach back between your shoulder blades to unhook your bra; he hungrily watches the way the action thrusts your chest forward. The garment loosed, Severus pushes the straps off of your arms, unwrapping you like a gift. His hot palm covers one bare breast, massaging, encircling the dark areola with his thumb, then lightly pinching the pebbled nipple. Moans escape your lips and he seems to take encouragement from eliciting that reaction. He bends his head to give the other breast similar treatment, with lips instead of hands.

The flicker of his tongue on your nipple makes you wonder what else the eloquent professor's mouth could be skillfully engaged in. But this isn't about that. Soon he's kissing a trail down your stomach again, sending pleasure tendrils straight to your groin. Instinctively, you cradle him between your legs, feeling his torso brushing the insides of your thighs as he kisses lower, exploring your hips and thighs.

You feel his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your knickers, and very soon they are gone. The cool air touches your moist labia. You're completely exposed now.

He's looking at you. You watch his expression, hoping your body, in its entirety, is granted approval.

His finger outlines your inner labia, and you gasp at the jolt of passion. He follows the oval to its apex, to the pistol nestled in its fleshy petals, and swirls his finger around it. He watches your reaction; you gasp again, your hips fidgeting of their own volition. He is so much more accurate than any previous teenage fumblings you've experienced. His finger circles the sensitive tip without waver. Your back is arched, your head tilted back against the pillows. You were expecting a quick fuck, not to be teased with pleasure yourself.

Severus slides off the edge of the bed and beckons you towards him.

"What're you doing?" you ask. No one's ever -

"I'm not about to take without giving back," he says, mercenary as any Slytherin.

He places a pillow from his sofa on the edge of the bed where he is kneeling; you arrange yourself upon it so your hips are now thrust up to meet him. Flat on your back, legs parted, you are now more open to a man than you've ever been in your life. He moves closer between your legs to allow you to rest your thighs on his shoulders; then his head dips towards your lower lips agape, and you are briefly struck by the slippery oddness of feeling someone put his mouth down there.

But, without warning, 'odd' gives way to amazing. His tongue, quick to mock in the classroom, is deftly swift in this endeavor as well. He flicks, sucks, and swirls you to astounding ecstasy. Your head turns this way and that, the pleasure coursing through your entire body but focused in the hub of indescribable, perfect pleasure between your legs. Your muscles tense rhythmically, your back arches. You hope you aren't being too loud, because the passion sweeping your body is too powerful to be capped by silence.

You're having a hard time keeping your hips still, though you're trying to do just that, because you don't want to throw him off his rhythm. You fight the urge to grip his head and push him closer, closer you're so close, you can feel the edge right in front of you, it's right there and you desire nothing else in the worldso much as to have him inside of you . . .

You fall off the edge of your orgasm, feeling the mattress welcome you back to earth. Severus flicks a couple of aftershocks from your clitoris, then you feel him move away from you. He comes back a moment later and curls beside you while you gasp breath back into your spent lungs. Your thigh muscles are still twitching.

You feel his large hand on your inner thigh, his fingers stroking your skin, and you meet his eyes.

"Meet your approval?" he asks, as if he's the student and you're the teacher.

You can't help but grin in post-orgasmic glee. The world is perfect. "Yes," you say, because there's no words to describe it.

He kisses you with a cool mouth that tastes of water; you're slightly embarrassed to realize that he must have been at the sink a minute ago. He moves his body onto your sweat-sheened one, and you know what he wants.

With only a second's hesitation - mostly ingrained worries about being thought easy - you let him move between your bent knees. Your eyes meet briefly, and then he moves his body upward and—

He's there. Your breath catches in your throat. You are filled. The pain you were dreading isn't there, but the sudden, intense physical connection brings something like pain-pleasure through your stomach. He moves once, slowly, and your lower body seems racked with surprise, pleasant yet aching, as it always is at first.

He moves into a long, slow rhythm, your body's first response giving way to perfect, primeval pleasure. With each slow thrust, it courses through your body from your flushed cheeks to the tips of your alternately pointed and flexed toes. It rolls over you like ocean waves, each one mounting higher and higher, pulling you towards -

There. Your muscles clench in a fit of orgasm, more visceral than the last one. Your head tilts back and cries of passion escape your lips.

But Severus isn't finished.

His rhythm quickens and shortens slightly, becoming more focused. For the first time, you understand what the romance novels say about older men; you know why furtive dabblings with boys your own age left you feeling blasé about sex. As a second orgasm - and then a third - build and release, you know that this is what sex is meant to be. This is what the 'big deal' is all about.

Apparently your Potions professor can teach you things after all, you think in the one remaining cognizant corner of your mind.

You and Severus are both moaning as you've only heard in Muggle movies as you rock together in matched cadence. You lift your knees, appeasing delicious instinct, curling your body into a C to meet him. Another orgasm explodes, like Fizzing Wizbees let loose in your veins. At the same time, Severus gives his loudest howl and thrusts deeper. You feel his release.

Everything is still.

You become slowly aware of the bedsheet sticking to the rivulet of sweat down your spine, the intolerable heat in the previously comfortable room, and Severus above and surrounded by you. His chest is heaving, matching your own breathing. He begins to move away, but you whisper, "Wait." You know you have no right to feel any foolish connection with him right now, but you can't stop the need to feel him inside you, easing you down from your sexual high.

Your arms and legs still draped around him, Severus waits, his body pressing down upon you, resting his forehead on the pillow beside your head. You can hear his post-orgasmic sighs in your ear. You catch your breath, willing the tears in the corners of your eyes to dissipate unshed, and you hold onto his firm, broad, comfortingly male body.

Sooner than you wanted, he shifts with a grunt, and your connection is gone. Your hips thank you when you bring your legs back to a civilized position. Contrary to your expectations, Severus only moves as far as directly beside you. His arms circle your body, his forehead against your neck. You don't fool yourself; it's only afterglow. But you don't want to let him go, either.

You don't talk. You both seem to sense, as reality gradually descends, that despite the act you've just shared, any words exchanged in this moment would lead to an intimacy that you couldn't turn back from once you reentered the world as professor and student.

A short while later, when you think he may have drifted off, you decide you had better escape before regret or embarrassment settles on either of you and short-tempered professor returns.

He dozes while you regain your scant clothes - accioing your robe from the entryway - but he isn't as asleep as you thought he was. Standing at his bedroom door, debating carrying your shoes and braving the school's stone floors barefoot, he rouses, puts on his dressing gown, and meets you.

The rest of his life is on the other side of this door, and your life beyond that. You look up at him hesitantly, wondering why he didn't just let you slip out, not sure if you wanted him to or not.

"Thank you for agreeing to this deal, Professor," you say, because you feel you ought to acknowledge the risk you asked him to take. But even now, officially 'post-coital', this room makes consequences seem far away and powerless, so you feel stupid having said it.

Snape seems to smile, though it's hard to see with his back to the firelight. "Not a word to anyone, not even your closest mates," he says, not unkindly. "Not about your grade, either."

You nod, a little put off that he'd bring that up; but you're fairly certain this is the last time he'll allow you to speak of this.

"Of course," you say. You trust the friend with whom you discussed this earlier with absolute secrecy (if her friendship isn't enough assurance, you possess some of her secrets, as well), so you don't worry Snape with the knowledge that another of his students knows their secret.

As you're about to open the door, he covers the hand that twists the doorknob. His touch has become comfortable.

"Why don't you floo back to, ah - ?" his voice tilts upwards towards a question.

"The seventh year girls' lav should be empty," you supply. Your knickers are sticking to you already.

At the fireplace, he cups your chin and kisses you again, his soft lips gently familiar.

Though it's risky, you say, "Professor, I won't be your student in two weeks. Perhaps," the nerves that had gripped you forever ago return, "graduation won't have to be our final parting?"

You can see his smile this time, a faint, unpracticed affair. "Perhaps."

Taking one last look at the disheveled Potions professor in his dressing gown, you drop your handful of powder. As you whisk through the castle's floo system, you note in retrospect that Snape's dry hair had begun to affect dampness at the roots again. Good heavens, how often must he wash his hair in a day, if it gets that greasy in an hour?

A moment later, you're alone in the pink-tiled girls' lavatory, your surroundings lacking anything to suggest that your activities this afternoon were at all unusual.

As you suds up under the hot shower, you reflect that you'll have Potions on Monday with your familiar, sarcastic professor, who will insult the color of your concoctions and ask you questions in front of the entire class that he will know you can't answer. And you will be grateful for that return to normalcy; even adopt the opinion that his sharp tongue isn't all that bad.

After all, you can't hold a grudge for too long against that tongue.


End file.
